Martha Moxley, shown in this undated photo, was found bludgeoned to death with a golf club on her family's estate in Greenwich in 1975. Her neighbor, Michael Skakel, was convicted June 7, 2002, in the murder.

Martha Moxley, shown in this undated photo, was found bludgeoned to death with a golf club on her family's estate in Greenwich in 1975. Her neighbor, Michael Skakel, was convicted June 7, 2002, in the murder.

Photo: Contributed Photo, ST

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Dorthy Moxley's tireless crusade

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VERNON -- The seat with the cushion is taken.

It is strategically positioned in the third row of the courtroom gallery -- immediately behind the prosecutors and with a direct view of the witness stand.

The person occupying the ergonomically flawed wooden pew is Dorthy Moxley, whose crusade for justice has outlasted one of her hips.

She is 80 now, needing noise-amplification headphones provided by the court.

And for nearly two weeks, Moxley and her sister-in-law, Mary Jo Rahatz, six years her senior, have been living out of a suitcase, eating diner food and assimilating among the locals in unassuming Vernon.

Where? It's a northern suburb of Hartford, known for Rein's Deli, a popular pass-through on the road to Boston that is across the parking lot from Moxley's hotel and where celery tonic and half-sour pickles are served. For the fortnight of the trial, Vernon, the antithesis of Greenwich, can be found in newspaper and wire service datelines throughout the land.

Moxley is here to represent her slain daughter, Martha, at the habeas corpus trial of Kennedy cousin Michael Skakel, who is serving 20 years to life in prison for the 1975 murder of the Greenwich 15-year-old.

"Every time I get a call that there's going to be another appeal and we have to come to court, I think, `Oh no, not that again,' " Moxley says. "I am sure that almost every person living in Greenwich, almost every person living in Connecticut, says the same thing, `Oh no, not that again.' "

This time is different -- and the same.

Never before has Moxley, widowed with a son and living in Summit, N.J., seen or heard Skakel in this kind of setting. His legal minds drop the bombshell that the 52-year-old nephew of Ethel Skakel Kennedy and the late Robert F. Kennedy is finally ready to testify, a gamble he did not take a decade ago during the criminal phase of the marathon homicide case. Until now, he's only spoken at parole hearings, his sentencing and arraignment, when Skakel famously blurted out at Dorthy Moxley, "You've got the wrong guy."

"You know, I don't think he ever did anything wrong in his whole life," Moxley says sarcastically after Skakel finished his testimony last week. "I just think this is all a waste of time and money."

Denied parole last fall, Skakel sued the state Department of Correction for unlawful imprisonment. He blames his 2002 conviction on Mickey Sherman, alleging that his lawyer was so distracted by fame and back taxes he owed the government a decade ago that he didn't cover every angle of the case.

Moxley only smiles and shakes her head.

"After sitting here now and listening to all this testimony, I am more convinced that Mickey Sherman did a wonderful job," Moxley says in the waiting room of the state attorney's office at the courthouse.

Every morning before the trial resumes, Moxley seeks the sanctuary of the office with her extended family -- the prosecutors. A number of them have devoted more than a decade of their careers to the case, at taxpayer expense. They hug Moxley and fill her in on the expected and unexpected.

By the very nature of habeas corpus cases, which are adjudicated in Vernon for the entire state, the prosecution must play defense. It must preserve the legitimacy of the verdict and sentence, a juxtaposition that requires prosecutors to attest to the competence of a former adversary in Sherman.

"The state has no choice," Moxley says. "If a person is found innocent, the victim can't do anything. You just have to live with it. But if a person is found guilty in Connecticut, they have endless appeals."

The Office of the Chief State's Attorney says it could take quite some time to crunch the numbers of the cost of the case to taxpayers. Assistant State's Attorney Susann Gill, who is taking the lead in the habeas proceeding and has concentrated on the case since 1998, acknowledges it is a large sum of money.

"Getting to know you is the best part of this case," Gill tells Moxley when the trial adjourns for the weekend.

Moxley never leaves her seat while court is in session, taking copious notes on a steno pad as opposing lawyers rehash the nitty-gritty from the worst night of her life.

"It is hard," she says. "I don't need to hear them again and again."

It was Oct. 30, 1975, "mischief night," in Belle Haven, a patrician enclave jutting into Long Island Sound. Martha Moxley went to a Halloween party at the Skakel home. It was the last time she was seen alive.

Beaten and stabbed in the neck with a golf club -- a ladies Toney Penna 6-iron traced to the Skakel household, Moxley's mangled body was dragged onto her Walsh Lane property and discovered by a friend the next day.

Michael Skakel eventually emerged as the prime suspect in the murder mystery, supplanting his brother, Tommy, and their live-in tutor, Ken Littleton, as persons of interest after two of his former classmates at the Elan School in Maine told investigators he confessed to them.

"I do think there is a possibility that there were other people involved, but I'm sure Michael swung the golf club," Dorthy Moxley says.

There are cringe-worthy moments during the trial. Moxley never flinches. Not even when an audiotaped interview of Skakel admitting to a peeping tom incident outside the Moxley home the night of the murder is replayed for the court.

"I have been hearing this story about masturbating for so many years now that I've grown accustomed to hearing it," Moxley says.

The first day of the trial, John Moxley, 54, accompanies his mother to the courthouse. He works as a commercial real estate executive in Manhattan and resides in Short Hills, N.J. His sense of disgust is palpable in the courthouse elevator at the end of the grueling session, saying that he is loath to give up another day to Skakel. His appearances are few.

Dorthy Moxley is in it until the end. Her noise amplification headphones plug into a transistor-like device with a volume dial. At times, the frequency crosses over with her sister-in-law's headset, creating a high-pitched noise over the courtroom's speaker system and forcing the two women to sit apart. They are reminded to keep their distance by judicial marshals.

Seated across the aisle is Ann Skakel McCooey, who is the same age as Moxley and is also wearing headphones. She is the aunt of Michael Skakel.

Though they're seeking diametrically opposite outcomes, cordiality prevails between the families. McCooey gives Moxley her arm to hold onto as they walk down the steps of the courthouse one afternoon. The women, all over 80, make small talk, with McCooey asking Moxley's sister-in-law, who lives in Overland Park, Kan., just over the border from Kansas City, Mo., if she pronounces it Missouri or "Missoura."

"I don't have to be nasty to them" Moxley says.

Moxley says the world would be a much better place if people followed the "golden rule."

"Do unto others as you would have them do to you," she says, apologizing for being preachy.

Though her Walsh Lane home became part of Greenwich's tear-down craze, Moxley says she returns to town as often as she can. The family plot -- the final resting place of Martha and her late husband, J. David Moxley, is in Putnam Cemetery.

Doors are held open for Moxley wherever she goes at the courthouse. She says God only dishes out what people can handle.

In her hand is her trusty cushion, ready for the next day -- if there is one.

"He was found guilty and he should take his punishment, and when he's taken his punishment, he should go home," she says of Skakel.